


A Story

by TheHydraulicPress



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: CREATIVE TITLE, F/M, I know, I wrote this English Class effort, Imagination, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Storyception - like a story within a story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-10
Updated: 2017-12-10
Packaged: 2019-02-12 23:58:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12971226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheHydraulicPress/pseuds/TheHydraulicPress
Summary: A kid who gets stuck writing a timed creative piece in class and bases it around the stationery he is holding.I wrote this the two periods of English with a sub this year. I had to fake productivity and this was the result.Yes - I edited and Yes - It wasn't marked.But you can mark it for me if you want to.





	A Story

“You have 50 minutes left,” the teacher snapped at me. I wasn’t even surprised anymore, most teachers have given up on me and my story writing. I have already done this test twice, the first one with others in the classroom and then the second time just like this one. A cold, well-lit room, I am chained to the wooden seat by my jailer. A single white piece of paper on a hard, wooden desk in front of me. One sharpened plain HB pencil and an equally dull eraser to match. Emptiness, a void, not only on the pristine in front of me but in my conscious. No ideas, as usual, as if they are sucked into a black hole, all the brightness stolen in a blink of an eye. I slowly pick up my pencil, the hard grooves against my cold fingers. It felt wrong. They dig into my grip, knives cutting into my skin. It hurt, the pencil hurt. It hurt that I’m sitting here disappointing my parents, my teachers… myself. I am blinded by the brightness, it defiantly stares back. Just like always. The clock ticking away, filling the artificial silence. Time slipping away, like the individual grains of course sand falling through the cracks and crevices of my fingers. ‘This isn’t like you Fable. You’ve always been good at English. Then why cheat?’ The memory washes over me as I hear my teacher tell me, her drooping eyes begging me to tell her wrong. I run my fingers through my platinum locks, looking down. Not meeting her gaze.

The pencil bumps against my writer’s callus. I want to cry, to scream that I’ve had enough. I have already cheated, then what’s the point of this. I will continue to be in this jail until I produce something, anything at all. “40 minutes left.” The page continues to stare, ‘Just one word,’ it tells me. One word, I fail, life continues. ‘But I don’t want to fail,’ I mentally whimper back. Then write, I tell myself. A word, a sentence, a paragraph, a story. Just one little story, that’s all I need. I cling to the pencil, it stutters not knowing what to do, what to write. I should be the one telling it what to do. Ask me to write an essay and I will with ease, but a story and I freeze. Time stands still. There is not one creative bone in my body. The pencil accidentally scratches the skin of the page, a cold shiver runs down the vertebrae of my back. I grab my eraser for comfort, it acts as an anchor. A siren that it is. As soon as I write it sings my insecurities to me. ‘That sentence is not good enough,’ it’s beautiful notes coo at me. It attacks my heart’s desires, like the cold wind would prick at the finest hairs on my warmth. Our love was forbidden, the graceful damsel behind wooed under the covers of the dark starry night sky. The pale moonlight illuminates the brave, charismatic knight dipping the blushing young maiden. Back to the task at hand, a singular sentence flows onto the page.

Success. I have managed to create something. The eraser seduces. I ignore it’s wanting looks. I forge on, a paragraph forms with time. Now it is the clock that is my enemy, the chains fall, as I find my freedom within this singular page. A story forms, one filled with betrayal, love, and desire. Words dancing on the page, gliding across the marble built dance floor with a tune that I construct. Symphonies fill my head. as a story is being written. Adjectives and adverbs bringing colour to the plain dancers, pretty frock and beautiful jewellery now adorns them. Punctuation guards the entrances, bringing order to the lively ballroom.

“Time’s up,” a voice breaks my concentration. The pencil falls from my grip, it clatters loudly against the firmness of the desk. The page is ripped from my hands. The door swings open with the women who teaches me this subject standing and glancing at the instructor. Some insignificant words are exchanged, and the page is passed to the other. She scans the page.

“It is always better to be an original than an imitation.”  
Those words shatter me.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for getting this far and actually reading this section. Though I didn't put the greatest effort into this "fable" (get it?) I wanted to still make an enjoyable short story.  
> I promise I'm getting better at working on this site and writing stories.  
> I would appreciate it so much if you could Kudos and Comment (Only if you like it! But I don't mind the haters too).  
> I hope to see you reading one of my other stories soon (If I remember to upload).  
> Ciao. ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ


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